Without Verdict
by breadandchoc
Summary: VEvey drabble collection A few moments, a few heartbreaks. All part of their cycle, really.
1. And so on

It is very simple, this grief: he is dead, London barely blinks, she misses him.

And so on and so on and so on.

It was very basic, his death: stagger and fall, blood and love in her arms, the last words of redemption.

And so on and so on and so—

Enough to know there are no happy endings in life, only trite endings with no background music. And in the groaning cry of London's rebirth, in the bleak emptiness of a sulphur-lit sky—

It will be very simple, the rest of her life: she will grieve, she will strengthen, she will love another again.

And she knows this: she has been through this before, yet her heart will not stop aching.

And she fears this: that already she is forgetting the sound of his voice, that this quiet grief that is numbing her slowly in a thousand inconsequential ways will always be there, beneath her breathing and smiles and time.

And so on and on and on…

In some ways she did not know him at all, and vice versa. In some ways she will never forgive him completely, and not vice versa. But her heart will not let go even though she wills it to; she is not afraid anymore but still she misses something, this part of herself that V will always have. For she had hated and she had loved and he had known her in a way she would never understand, and though they had more secrets than truths between them, it was enough: this is life, she thinks through her ache-blur of her grief, and it is rarely simple.

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V/Evey is a pairing which I will never understand why it fascinates me so because frankly, I don't quite get the characters. Hence, beware the OOC in this collection. Writing is often spontaneous and plot-less. Thanks for all feedback. :)_


	2. Impeccable

_Based on word: Impeccable. Thank you, Google Word-of-the-Day feature.  
Thanks for all feedback, as always.  
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The problem is his mask, Evey realizes drowsily after her second –third?- shot. It is just too… she ponders it slowly, unrolling the thought with the impeccable determination of the consciously drugged- just too _real_, she decides finally. That's it. Who would believe he didn't look exactly like that underneath it?

'You,' she slurs to an amused V, finger pointing accusingly to somewhere to his left. He obligingly moves himself to the targeted spot; Evey ignores this regally.

'You,' she says again, then pauses. What was it? Oh- 'You're too real. Take- it- _off_--'

He catches her before she hits the floor, a scramble of surprised _oomphs _collapsing in a tangle of limbs and body heat. For some reason, she finds this incredibly hilarious, but even with her giggles and stubbornly unco-operative body, he still manages to safely land her on the floor in a decently comfortable position.

'-failin…surprise, Evey,' someone is saying through her pleasant contentment of her daydreaming. Then, louder and more wryly: 'Blessed are the medicated indeed, for they are truly free.'

She tries to focus her eyes on the source-where is he?- for there is sudden warmth infusing her body and she is feeling generously, compulsively affectionate of him. Sweet, mad V with his quotes and words and murders. He'll be the saviour of them all, she thinks dreamily. Of all unsung, unwanted heroes—

But wait- there is a sudden stillness beside her; the blur of dark movements and humming has stopped. Then there it is, that mask over her, V: he is tilting her chin up gently and he is, she realizes belatedly, he is tense. He is tense and he is… he is _sad. _And he is so very close to her… so very… damn her _head_…

'What makes a murderer?' he is saying now, but she can barely concentrate; it is so warm and sleepy, this fog, and she had to struggle through its heavy greyness to think… '-hardly heroi-'…and yet, he is still so very real above her and he is still hiding behind words, and she has hurt him yet again- 'I dare do all that may--'

--it is not a kiss, exactly, more of a pressing of her forehead against his mask. It is surprisingly cool and smooth under the fevered heat of her skin, and she instinctively presses him towards her with one stray hand entangled in his hair. For one long, stunned moment they are sharing the same breath before he jerks back, violent and gasping as if she had stabbed him. In reflex, she thinks, dimly triumphant… for she could have sworn—she saw—glimpse of ash eyes… incredulous, darkening with…

'Des're,' Evey slurs, smiling. And is unconscious.

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Later, when she awakes with tousled hair and an irritable greeting, V is careful in asking certain questions while she wolfs down fried bread with her fingers.

She is licking her palm in quick, greedy flicks when she answers absently, and so it will forever be the tangible taste of oil and butter in the air that V will associate with this moment: not the realization that she had made him become more than an idea or even the acrid taste of disappointment, but the entire implausibility that he had been expecting it.


	3. In Hindsight

_Thanks for all feedback. :)_

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There are moments when she is so radiant it almost hurts to watch, her light is so bright and unwavering that even you can't hide behind words, your precious eloquence.

It is rare and it is when you know she has given up: something pushes her too far, that proverbial straw, and she does not so much snap as bend- she gives up all hope, she gives up all despair, she becomes unafraid and then there it is: that cold, proud glitter of the defiant freedom, that uncaring fierceness of the fatalistic.

Her body is her betrayal and mystery, that small, breathing container of delicate bones and treacherous feminity; you find yourselves wondering how she could have survived so far, so long without breaking and still not do anything about it. Is it really so paralyzing, her fear, that she would not risk living for terror of death? How does she breathe with such restraint- doesn't she ever want to break free, to live and bleed and strive…

Will she ever forgive you if… something monstrous…

Then she comes out of it all, shattered and free and so bright it hurts your eyes to watch her rage at you. Her body has broken and there is nothing left to fear; this will be the last time you get to hold her, the last moments she will tremble and hate and live so strongly for you, in these seconds.

And still she doesn't let go, or maybe it is you, but that doesn't matter- a part of you wants to break and weep and confess to her _I'm sorry, Evey, oh Evey, never forgive what I am _but no, you would do it all over again if you had to. So you tell her to _commit to it_, and even _this is the most important moment of your life_, and what can you do but hope desperately that she hears the goodbye in the undertone?

The salt-rain is blurring your eyes and streaking in cold rivets down your face through the eye slits when you look to the sky as you carry her to the balcony.

_God is in the rain_, she says and she is crying and smiling and beautiful; her bare arms are wet and her face naked with emotion, lifted to the rain, a goddess, and she has never glowed so bright.

But you- there is a mask echoing the pounding rain into surrealism and the black that shields your scars also shields you from God's touch in the rain; only demons and monsters are born of fire and you think, tiredly, that it shouldn't bother you, after all you've managed…

Less than a week later, she is leaving for the second time, but it still stings sweetly, this vindication. You know she had left you in the moment you ordered her to become her own; if you really loved her, you would let her go again. After all, her light has always been too strong for you when it is the shadows you prefer. But now she is saying _I have to go_ and already you are missing her, her fearless eyes and small curled fists, and before you can stop- before you _want_ to stop, you ask her to see you want more time.

_Of course_, she says, as if she is actually willing to.

It is strange how this hurts and shames you more than anything else she has said, and for one life-stopping moment you want to give her twenty years of your dreams right there and then, if only she would say _I hate you_ again and let you kiss her.


	4. 3 words

_Thanks for the feedback._

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She thinks of it sometimes, when she's not doing anything else important.

In the morning, after tea. In the shadows of her room, before dusk, near twilight, into the night. Almost all the time.

'I miss him,' she tells her reflection in the mirror one day. It comes out of her mouth, almost in afterthought; her mirror self looks back startled at her.

They stare at each other—no, she stares at _herself_ (she is alone now), and only remembers to look down when the water laps at her fingers.

The basin is overflowing; her toes flinch from the wet chill in belated response.

She unplugs the stopper, then walks out of the bathroom to sit on the floor in front of the couch. Softness of any kind still unnerves her and her skin is already hypersensitive to the spongy support of the carpet, let alone the strangely nauseating pliability of the couch. She can get almost seasick from all its glutinous yielding.

But it seems her sensitivity of touch of returning; she searches for any reaction, some reaction- nothing. The dark bruising on her wrists deepens in the half-light- for a moment, she sees like a flash of illumination the pulsing dark red beneath the gaping maroon gashes where the iron had dug too deep but no, he had treated her wounds with careful, agonizing precision afterwards and there are only faint white scars criss-crossing the bruising.

Evey holds her thin wrists up to the light from the bathroom and examines it distantly, a connoisseur regarding a strange and exotic art piece. It's probably a good thing she'd left him so soon after; neither of them knows what she is capable of, now.

'I hate him,' she says, testing the words on her tongue, listening to it hang in the air but it sounds the same, as always: _I miss him, I hate him, I'll kill him_- no difference in them all but the wording, these three-word clichés.

Soon, it won't be long before—

Evey puts down her arms and turns on the television. She watches till her body can resist no longer and falls asleep without noticing: arms wrapped around her drawn up legs, freshly-shorn head resting against her arms.

The room flickers with the light of the late night news and the footage of the terrorist remaking the country dance in ghost-patterns against her skin, but it is no use: it is one of those moments Evey is not thinking about it; she is dreaming and it is enough.


	5. Overall:

_Experimentations with syntax. Unfortunate jagged result. Writing for procrastination again, so plotless and rambling.  
Warnings of: AU of V being alive, OOC. Very annoying ending.  
Thanks for the previous feedback. _

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Overall, things are going pretty well for them. 

Sure, there is that occasional breathless urge to hurt him (gorge razor-deep vengeance into his flesh or rip off his mask- which would kill him more?), but it passes quickly and V doesn't notice most of these lightning-changes, anyway. Like last night.

Overall, things are going pretty well for England.

Sure, there is that power-lusting colonel with too much manpower, but elections (actual, working,_ fair_ elections- who would have dreamed?) are going to be held in a month and V is probably going to strip the colonel of certain advantages, anyway. Like breathing.

Also, Evey has her own apartment now, a residue from the months she spent by herself before The Fifth. She doesn't really use it, per say, but she does go to it sporadically, randomly- often at night, when a feeling of suffocation and unfathomable longing seems to choke the whole chamber- and it's a strange comfort, this place she owns.

Also, the other cities have their own vigilantes now, a residue from the grand sulfur-burst of promised defiance V had rained down on The Fifth. They aren't really V, per say, but that's the entire point- dramatic outfits, theme music and their individual icons of white doves, bloody axes, meaningful and obscure alphabets- and it's a strange comfort, this England no one owns.

She misses him, sometimes, when he is near. Things are paradoxical and simple like that. It starts like an ache in her chest, the slow warmth of quiet pleasure. He might look at her, just a turn of his head or the briefest touch on her forearm, and it'll be enough. Sometimes there are flashes of resentment mixed beneath, unexplainable because Evey prefers to ignore them, and she'll move away, taking her plate away with a vague excuse on her lips. She'll eat standing in another room, quickly, till her chest loosens enough for her to be sure she won't hit him or pull him close, a hungry trail of kisses up his neck.

No one misses the old government, not even when riots break out on the sixth day. Things are unsaid and simple like that. It starts like a rumor, the wild undercurrent of alleyway whisperings. Someone might have heard something, another hated official found dead in Hampshire's gutters or the briefest promoting of another new political party, and everyone would know. Sometimes there are the old fanatics, usually the rare beneficiaries of the system, who'd try the old bloodshed tactic to force their way up, but there are enough starved for freedom to discourage anyone to do something stupid or destroy the elections, the bodies a testament to London's determination.

It's almost like infatuation, this intensity.

It was almost like a party of thanksgiving, those riots.

'Am I caging you, Evey?' V asks one day, gently. Out of the blue, as if they were continuing a conversation.

Her hands freeze in the act of throwing some personals into a bag- a shirt, toiletries, miscellaneous overnight needs- and Evey spins around, guilty as if she'd been caught thieving. From the doorway, V is a flurry of careful, still movements in dark outline.

She concentrates on the still set of his shoulders. Avoids his eyes. 'I'm going over to my old place for today,' she says, straining a lightness in her tone. 'I might stay the night there, as usual.'

V is silent for a while. Evey shifts her eyes from him to the doorframe, so she doesn't have to see the way he misses a breath for a moment. Then he moves towards her, still with those polite, deliberate movements. Carefully, as if a wounded soldier on his last legs, as if something might break.

The blackness of his suit obscure her vision and she's forced to look up at him. It is a mixture of tender uncertainty and anger tightening her chest, how surreal.

There is a moment of silence, heart-stealing.

'Be well, Evey,' he says simply, and there is the warmth of his breath through the mask's slit when he presses his lips on her forehead.

V draws back, gloved hands still tight on her shoulders. For a heartbeat, they are staring at each other, so close- her pulse is quick in her mouth, metallic and sweet. Almost as close as they had been on that night of the Fifth, almost close enough to—just—

Evey is still missing him when he leaves the room, quiet and gracious as ever. She is still resenting him, just a little, when she starts to repack her bag, throwing in belongings that will last well past just one overnight stay. It is not fair, she thinks, how I can affect him like that. It is not…

But what is this strange relief when she meets the surface, baked air from the street's grimy surface clinging to her skin?

She walks to her building, exultation battling with grief and longing under her skin. It is a strange feeling- another paradox when she knows without a slightest shadow of a doubt that she is never happier than with V and really, there's nothing to grieve about, it's not like he's dead again or she has lost him…

Evey's hands take a while before they manage to fit the key into the slot and turn the lock with a dusty creak. She takes time to lock the door behind her and moves immediately to the window overlooking a humble section of London's congested streets. Tries to place where V would be.

Through the fingerprint-oils smearing the window and the freckles of dust in the paleness of her reflection staring back at her, Evey starts to understand what she is doing.

In all probability, V knew it before she did; she could have just asked.

He didn't ask her to come back this time, though, she realizes with a dull jolt.

Does this mean… after she throws herself into England's work, after she frees herself enough from his— his _influence_, his near-overwhelming _presence _sometimes, to know with enough calm certainty who she is, with enough time to absorb the future and all its implications… does it mean she won't be able to come back? Will he still be there? Does he understand?

Her face's reflection is made up of London's twisted streets and huddled houses. Evey resists the urge to twist around and pound down the stairs, racing back and down into where V is, and crying _no, wait, I change my mind, I just wanted to be- don't think I don't love you, I do, I just need time_ in between ragged breaths and pressing her fists into his back while he holds her and soothes her in that voice of his.

But: she doesn't.

But: if she does, she would never leave. This is another of his damnable gifts, a continuation from the first where, in a dank, filthy cell, something in her had made a silent promise of freedom to herself that she had never known till now.

Evey sinks down on the cold tiles of her new home and starts to unpack her bag. Her body is yearning for him already, a heavy tug on her heart in the direction of where V is, a longing-trail in quiet reminder of true home.

England sinks down into the bones of her new life and starts to unpack her closets' skeletons. The people are learning already, a quiet shift in the direction of where Lady Justice is, an undercurrent of flickering hope of what could be.

And there are more political parties forming everyday, but how strange- there are almost no riots anymore; it is just you, and me, and us.

And she is missing him even though he is not near, but how strange- there are no longer any lightning-twists of bitterness underneath; it is just V, and V, and her.

And let's face it, revolutions aren't paperback comedies but overall, even though there will be blood, sweat and tears, England's future will probably blaze it's way into history somehow.

And let's face it, theirs isn't a paperback romance but overall... even though there will be blood, sweat and tears...


	6. let us pretend to be in love

_Just a handful of writing impulses. Thanks for all feedback, always. :)_

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_i. you light up my day_

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Evey flopped on the sofa upon returning home, loose-limbed and wearily comfortable, the scent of street exhaust tangled in her hair.

'Someone asked me out today,' she informed me. There was a peek of a laugh behind the solemnity.

'Indeed?' I said dryly, sprinkling more sage on the chicken. 'And what did you say, pray tell?'

'Indeed, what do you think?' she teased. 'They think I'm single.'

Naturally. Of course. 'I presume this is intended to conjure my green-eyed monster?' A flick of the ladle demonstrated my absolute unconcern. 'Ah, defend us from the capriciousness of the fairer sex!'

Evey giggled and padded up from behind, arms around waist. 'You're always say such ridiculous things when you get jealous,' she sighed.

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_ii. but save our poetry from our mirrors_

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Let's skip the prose. I'm beautiful and you're charismatic.

Now what?

Let's go even deeper. Bare our throats.

I liked you and I hated you. You found me and you lost me. Your average paperback novel, bookmarked in the middle. The plot thickens.

And then you told me 'I fell in love with you'. Do you know you kill a girl with those words? No knives. No blood. Just a man and a woman, the same story. Just those words.

Don't give me prose. Don't give me pretty words. I want words that go straight for the heart, bypassing niceties. That grip you by the teeth and won't let go.

Like 'you came back'. Like 'this is the most important moment of your life'. Like 'we are in love'. How unlucky. How unlucky.

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_iii. a many-sided thing_

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If she had to confess, really confess, this how she once wished to fall in love:

Drunk, singing ridiculous songs and crying with laughter over stories they'll be too embarrassed to remember tomorrow, late into the night. They will be in the warm dilution of a Parisian-themed café—see, how fantastical it has already become—and the only customers left; he will grandly order another bottle of merlot, waving away her weak protests that come more for the sake of appearance than actual reluctance, and the owner with gruff, heavyset jowls will relent and bring it because his wife will be foolishly teary-eyed with the nostalgic passion of youth, and what is one more bottle if it makes her happy. They will be drunk enough to dance barefoot outside the café, old magic in the air, cobblestones underfoot and a twirling, dizzying breath of feverish laughter and bright eyes, the furtive slip of skin against skin, fingernails clutching at silk and threads. She will insist on splitting the check with him-- this unseen future lover of her imagination who has enduring flaws and compelling strengths-- and they will stumble their way home, muffling laughter in the crook of each other's shoulders, pressing moist whispers in the secret hollows of the ear, making love with fingers entwined. In the morning, they will exchange awkward looks and make foolish jokes about their lost footwear and they will discover they both prefer tea over coffee, and they will look at each other over the burnt toast and smile. And that is what she had always associated falling in love with: mediocre wine with a surprising twist of tartness in aftertaste that redeems it, warmth flushing her skin like the rich perversion of afterglow; love like chocolates and music and domestic spats, heart-wounds survivable as paper-cuts.

If that is love, she has never been more badly out of love than now.

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_iv. and the truth is…_.

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If he had to confess, really confess, he would have nothing to say on the matter.

Love was an idealist's myth; Evey is a natural disaster.

But he repeats himself.


	7. our probability of

_On irritable impulse because I STILL CAN'T SOLVE THIS MATH PROB ARIGH so might as well post this.  
DAMN YOU, PROBABILITY!_

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Not that it happens, but fucking V would've come naturally.

Sex and violence. Blood and roses. Of such niceties his world is built on.

If she'd expected it to be awkward in the morning, it was. If she'd expected it to be hungry and passionate and orgasmically dirty, it was too, in its own way. The nakedness of emotions is often the crudest thing, after all.

When V wants her, his focus is single-minded to the point of being disturbing, though in a strangely gratifying way. A man who has spent the last twenty years honing his will of concentration is a little terrifying to have sex with. It is like making love to fire—no, not candle-flame or even woodfire, no—like a forest inferno devouring her inside out, wild and terribly beautiful, taking more than she can give. So intense he burns to touch when he moves above her. He makes love like a man waiting to kill.

Sometimes he is sweetly gentle, slow kisses as if pauses for permission. Sometimes it is like a test to see how far she will go, deadly pleasure and cold blade on skin. V touches her as if he is horrified and fascinated at what she lets him do to her in blindfolds and darkness. She knows he is dismayed that she follows him even in sleep, filling up the spaces of his movements; Evey also knows he follows her in the day, an unconscious tug to wherever she is.

Sometimes his touch comes wonderingly, adoring every inch of her; sometimes it is just sex. Sometimes he is almost angry, movements brusquely brisk enough that her climax feels like an afterthought to his own. At times like this, his bitterness seeps into her bones and she lies staring into the darkness beside him after with her mouth dry and eyes drier. Evey knows V blames their weakness solely on himself and she cannot honestly say she is not relieved that his disappointment isn't directed to her.

Then the Fifth comes and V tells her he fell in love with her, and all Evey can despair of is the moments that never were.


End file.
